


Black Carnival

by jusrecht



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As his absence grew, so did her dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Carnival

As his absence grew, so did her dreams—and in her dreams, he came home.

In her dreams, he came home limping on one foot, dangling one arm that wept uselessness for its missing brother. His face had lost its colour and contour, swept clean by a ruthless blade which left gaping holes where handsomeness once had been. She touched his hand but he recoiled, a guttural snarl rising feebly from his throat; crownless, faceless, he was a wounded animal, no longer a king, no longer hers.

In her dreams, he came home riding a white horse, unchanged, unscathed, but with neither love nor recognition shining in his eyes. Riding with him was a beautiful princess, her skin pale and noble, her golden locks shimmering under Camelot’s welcoming sun. He had conquered the enemy’s castle, the enemy’s king, the enemy’s daughter; he had found his true queen, and forgotten Guinevere.

In her dreams, he came home another man, everything about him altered, darkened. Not one shadow followed his horse's forlorn pace, no laughing friend riding by his side, no triumphant army marching at his aft. Merlin, Elyan, Lancelot, Gwaine were now but ghosts that grinned from his armour’s lost shine, clung to his muddied sleeves, straddled his bone-thin shoulders, clawed his bloodied chest. As the gate swung open, he turned a pair of dead eyes to her, and she wept.

In her dreams, he came home riding a black horse, his soldiers singing a victorious hymn to his name and his matchless valour. She welcomed him with smiles and tears and open arms; he laughed and whispered love into her ears. Then, as she kissed him and caressed his beautiful face, his smile shattered and crumbled into dust, his flesh and bones collapsing into motley wreaths of illusion. She heard her mute, wordless scream, scorching her useless throat as Morgana’s vengeful laugh filled her lungs and drowned her ears.

In her dreams, he came home in a black wood coffin, voiceless, motionless, a black shroud upon his face. The wood was cold under her clenching fingers, but he was colder still—silent, dead, beyond her reach. She could not lift the shroud, could not kiss his lips and feel him dead, and so she sat at the edge of the coffin and lay her head on his feet, heavy with unshed tears. Around her, mourners chanted their sadness; their funereal lament swallowed her, little by little, until she was no more, a shadow in the blackness.

In her dreams, he came home riding a winged horse which descended majestically from the western sun. She sighted him from the castle’s highest tower, but he never drew any closer, and when she threw open the city’s gate to run and greet him, she never drew any closer. She ran, pleading. He rode, smiling. The distance remained.

In her dreams, many of her dreams, he never came home at all.

Then she opened her eyes and found him sleeping by her side—still her husband, still her king, still _Arthur_. She remembered that she had run across the courtyard and into his arms, only yesterday, that she had kissed his lips and felt whole once more. He lived, breathed, _here._

“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear as grateful tears spilled from her eyes, “thank you for coming home to me.”


End file.
